George Fraser - Mr American

“Oh, just ordinary fellows; nothing very romantic, I’m afraid. And yet – I don’t know. You’d have liked Big Ben Kilpatrick, I guess – very tall, good-looking; and Cassidy, too – he must have been the politest brigand that ever was, and quite presentable when shaved. Ever hear of them?” She shook her head, wistfully. “Well, they’re the best I can do for you – and I couldn’t claim more than nodding acquaintance. Old Davis and I stayed with them once for a spell, at a place called Hole-in-the – Wall; he’d once been teamed up with one of Kilpatrick’s gang –”

“Hole-in-the-Wall! You’re making it up!”

“That’s what it was called. And they called themselves the Wild Bunch, if you like. Not so wild, either; they’d robbed a train or two, I guess, but didn’t make much of it. Pretty harmless outlaws, I reckon.” He picked up the menu. “Most of them. Anyway, what are you going to eat for dessert?”

“Oh, never mind that! I want to hear about the Bad Bunch – and the ones who weren’t pretty harmless!”

“Well, you’re not going to – or you’ll wind up with the idea that I’m some sort of crook myself. And I’m not.”

“No, you’re not,” said Pip, dutifully consulting her menu. “You’re a very respectable cowboy, visiting England, wearing silver and diamond cuff-links and studs, and dining in a swish restaurant, as visiting cowboys always do.” She stole a glance at him over the top of the menu. “I’m real cheeky, aren’t I? And it’s none of my business, is it? All right, I’ll keep quiet.”

“I doubt it,” said Mr Franklin drily. “I’d just like you to understand that this dinner is not going to be paid for out of the loot from the … the Cactus Gulch stage-coach. You’re eating the result of a lot of hard, dirty, very ordinary digging in the earth, and an old man’s crazy hunch, and a great deal of luck. Now, what –”

“Ooh!” Her eyes were wide. “You mean you struck it rich!”

“Crepes Suzette,” read Mr Franklin. “Bombe Caligula, whatever that is; Poire Belle Hélène; Macedoine à la duchesse –”

“Mean thing! I just wondered … right-ho, then, I’ll have trifle and a double helping of whipped cream. But you might tell a fellow …”

But Mr Franklin felt he had said enough for one evening, and when Pip had worked her way through a mountainous trifle, and coffee was served, their talk returned to normal channels – in other words, the theatre, and the possibility that she might play Dandini in the forthcoming Gaiety pantomime, but then she might find herself replaced at the Folies, and it was a good billet, with excellent prospects, but Dandini would pay at least an extra pound a week … Mr Franklin smoked a cigar, and nodded attentively, and presently, when the waiter presented the bill, Pip rose and stretched and sauntered in behind the crimson curtain which screened off a small alcove at the back of the supper-room. Mr Franklin paid, and added a handsome tip, and smoked for a few moments more before he began to wonder idly what she was doing. At that moment there came a soft whistle from behind the curtain; he rose, slightly startled, and going across, pulled the curtain aside. There he stopped, stock-still.

The third principal of the Folies Satire had piled her clothing neatly on a chair, all except her stockings, and was reclining on a large couch which filled most of the alcove, observing herself with approval in a large overhead mirror, and humming softly. She glanced at Mr Franklin, smiled brightly, and asked:

“Did you bolt the door?”

“My God,” said Mr Franklin, and then paused. He turned away, put his cigar in an ash-tray, and returned to the alcove, looking down at her.

“Pip,” he said, “you don’t have to, you know.”

Pip stopped in the act of smoothing her stockings. “Course I don’t,” she said, and winked at him. “But I’d rather. Here,” and she patted the couch beside her, “come and sit down. You make me feel all girlish, standing there.”

Mr Franklin frowned. Then, in response to her outstretched hand, he came to the couch and sat down, looking at her steadily.

“I don’t,” he began, and paused before adding: “I just brought you out to supper, Pip.”

“No, you didn’t,” said Pip. “I brought you. And it wasn’t just for supper, Mr American.” She slipped her arms round his neck and pulled his face down to hers, parting her lips and flickering her tongue at him. “You don’t get off that lightly.” She kissed him, slowly at first, then very deeply and lingeringly before drawing her lips away. “Are you looking at my damned squint again?”

A rather dazed Mr Franklin shook his head. “Good,” murmured Pip, “now you’d really better go and bolt the door, so we won’t have any distractions. I want to enjoy myself.”

Which she did, so far as Mr Franklin could judge, for the next twenty minutes, at the end of which time she lay very still, panting moistly into the pillow until she had recovered her breath, when she observed that that was better than working, or standing in the rain.

“Aren’t you glad you bought that bunch of flowers, then?” she added, and Mr Franklin admitted, huskily, that it had been a most fortunate chance. She nodded happily, running her fingers idly up and down his naked back while she studied her reflection overhead.

“I’m losing weight … I think. Here, any more of that champagne left? Oh, good, I need it, I can tell you! Talk about the Wild Bunch – you’re a bit wild yourself, aren’t you, though? Hey – you’re not getting dressed! The idea!”

In fact, it was after two o’clock in the morning before Pip sighed regretfully that she supposed they had better call it a night, because Renzo would be wanting to get to bed, and a relieved but contented Mr Franklin agreed. He was, to tell the truth, rather shaken, and not a little puzzled by the events of the evening, as appeared when they were preparing to leave the supper-room, and Pip was making final, invisible adjustments to a coiffure which had miraculously remained undisturbed through all the hectic activity in the alcove. Mr Franklin in the background, was contemplating his hat and gloves thoughtfully; Pip observed him in her hand-mirror.

“Don’t reach for your note-case, or I might get offended,” she said and as his head came up she turned, smiling, and shook her head at him. “You were going to, weren’t you?”

Mr Franklin cleared his throat. “I wasn’t certain.”

“You don’t give money to actresses,” said Pip, gravely, and kissed him on the nose, giggling at his perplexity. “Don’t you understand, darling? – I do it ’cos I like doing it. With the right one. Girls enjoy it, too, you know, spite of what you hear. You didn’t stand a chance, from the minute I saw you outside the stage door, you poor silly! No, you’re not, either – you’re a nice American, and it’s been a beautiful evening, and I just wish it could have gone on and on.”

“So do I,” said Mr Franklin. “Perhaps another –”

“Careful,” said Pip. “It might get to be a habit.” She frowned, and dropped her voice: “You don’t have to, you know,” and they both laughed. Then she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him again, stretching up on tip-toe before subsiding breathlessly. “That’s enough of that – Renzo’s got to get to bed sometime.”

They went down to the street through the restaurant, where the lights had been turned down, and Pip called “‘Night, Renzo” to the darkened dining-room. Mr Franklin hailed a growler, and they clopped slowly down to Chelsea, where Pip had a room. “Next rise I get, it’ll be Belgravia, and chance it,” she confided. “Mind you, many more dinners like tonight, and I’ll get so tubby I’ll be bloody lucky if I can afford Poplar.”